


let me show my expertise (i'm an expert tease)

by hamiltrashed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, As you do, But not really that public, Hand Jobs, I have a thing for modern office AUs for these two, I mean they hate each other but they're also still gonna bang, M/M, Masturbation, Not that it's overly hatey, Public Hand Jobs, Sorry Not Sorry, There's a tag for hate sex but not for hate hand jobs, They're in a conference room, This has nothing to do with the previous series I wrote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7151312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still worked up after an all-too-typical shouting match with Jefferson, Hamilton takes it upon himself to use the conference room for something it was definitely never intended for. </p>
<p>(Or, the one where someone jerks it in a conference room and gets caught.)</p>
<p>[Recently changed my pseud from <b>s0urw0lf</b> to hamiltrashed, in case that confused anyone!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me show my expertise (i'm an expert tease)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michelle_A_Emerlind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/gifts).



> This is unbeta'd so any mistakes I didn't catch are entirely my own fault. However, my usual beta, my muffin, Michelle_A_Emerlind (if you're not reading her fic 'The Monticello Furlough', you're doing life wrong) was the one who came up with the bunny for Hammy being super worked up after debating Jefferson and deciding to y'know, touch himself after everyone leaves the room. Being the person that I am, I had to oblige and write this.
> 
> _you know that our bodies were made for sinning_  
>  _tease you, make you burn for me_  
>  \- jennifer lopez

Alex is fairly sure that it isn’t the arguing itself. It’s the atmosphere, the tension, the sparks of anger that flit like lightning between himself and everyone in the room, but especially Thomas – that’s what does it for him. It doesn’t matter what they’re arguing about anymore; half the time, Alex forgets halfway through the strength upon which his argument was built in the first place. Hell, they could be arguing about which flavour of Fruit Roll-Up is the best at this point and he wouldn’t care, as long as he gets to a.) yell at Jefferson about it, and b.) feel his blood start to boil in an almost satisfying way.

He drops into a chair, breathing hard as everyone else files out of the room, some shooting dirty looks over their shoulders at him. Alex knows it’s because he dominated the bulk of the meeting with running his mouth, but he can’t stop, refuses to, until these people see reason. More than that, until _Thomas Jefferson_ sees reason. He gives Alex the dirtiest look of all of them as he leaves the room, flicks the light off as he goes and lets the door shut behind him, leaves Alex alone with the taste of bitter annoyance at them all on his tongue. Annoyance and something else, something that keeps him running hot long after he sees the back of Thomas.

_Arousal_ , his brain supplies, because that’s not fucking ridiculous or anything. It’s entirely _normal_ to be half hard and damn near ready to go after an intense political debate, completely ordinary that he’s suddenly antsy and itching for a hand in his pants, for just the smallest touch to take the edge off. He tells himself no, not _here_ , that he’s never been into exhibitionism even though it may as well be his middle name for how often the real meaning between the lines of what he says is _everybody look at me, see me, pay attention to me_. He tells himself to think it through, that his whole career could come crashing down around his ears in a half second if he were caught. But the corner conference room is dark with the lights off and the blinds drawn, and Alexander Hamilton staying behind to wind down after yelling himself hoarse in a meeting is already an office joke. So why not?

Alex relishes the feeling of leather between his fingers as he slides his belt open. The soft clink of the buckle sounds all too loud in the perfect quiet of the room and it makes him just a little jumpy, but he leans back into his chair anyway, pops the button open on his pants, and tugs the zipper down. Surprised there’s any narcissism left to go around after Thomas has been in the room, Alex admires the way he tents the thin cotton of his boxers, ignores that he’s been lazy about laundry and that he’s wearing snowflake print boxers in the heat of July. He lets his fingers trail over himself, shivering at the soft brush of his own hand, and snidely considers the fact that Thomas could potentially be bigger than him, but that it wouldn’t matter if he doesn’t know how to use what he’s got.

And that’s an odd thought to be having. The size of Thomas Jefferson’s dick is of no interest to him, except in that his flashy materialism actually suggests he may be compensating, so why would it really matter who’s bigger? But of course it does, because everything matters when everything is a competition. And with a hundred more arguments still ready just at the back of his throat, it matters even more when Thomas starts going off on him like a rabid dog and Alex can’t tear his eyes from the movement of his lips, the anger in his eyes, his hands shaking as though they’d like to put Alex up against a wall. It matters because this is a man he hates beyond all reason and it matters because despite all that, Alex knows he would still give it up to him in half a second if he asked, just for the ferocity of the way that deep down, he imagines Thomas would fuck him. But still. He cares little for Jefferson’s… _attributes_ , because why would he? It’s never going to happen.

So he tries to focus on something other than Thomas. Alex slides one hand inside his boxers, curls his fingers around himself, strokes quick and steady and tries to recapture the feeling of the tension in the room. It was heavy enough, thick enough to be cut through with nothing less than a chainsaw; every eye had been on him, and everyone had clamoured to speak over one another whenever Alex paused to take a drink. But he and Jefferson had led, as they always did, standing on opposite sides of the table, Washington at the head with his face in his palm as they traded insults more than political solutions. They leaned so close over the middle of the table like sharks snapping at one another, that Alex’s mouth could have been on Thomas’s in an instant if he’d chosen to do so.

_To shut him up_ , Alex tells himself, but as he grows harder, thrusts up into his hand, he realises he’s going to have to stop pretending. Because it’s not about the tension in the room between himself and everyone else. It’s about the tension solely between himself and Thomas, and he knows that. It’s about the way they play off one another so easily, the way they each twist the other’s words, the way that, when they’re arguing, they have eyes only for each other and how it could be seen as oddly romantic if endless fights were amorous. It’s about how for no other reason than wanting to know the taste of his lips, his tongue, Alex wants to _kiss_ Jefferson (and that’s only the most innocent of his desires).

Okay. So he _does_ care about Jefferson and everything he’s got to offer, insofar as it meets his needs in this one way. Alex would be lying if he said he had another fantasy half so adequate in terms of curing his frustration. Nothing but Thomas has ever gotten him so worked up so fast, and thoughts of other things have never yielded the same result as he does: Alex breathless, blissful, and craving more even in the moment he finds his release. There are orgasms had simply to sate a primal urge in him, and then there are orgasms that are the result of thoughts of Thomas’s hands and his hair and his eyes and the way Alex is sure being in bed with him would be just as intellectually and emotionally satisfying as debating him.

Alex lets his legs fall open, stretched out in front of him, dragging his fingertips along his cock and then running his thumb across the head before pulling himself free of his boxers. _Good, but better with his tongue on you_ , he thinks, and goes to work with that image in his mind. Jefferson on his knees is first on a long list of things unlikely to ever happen, but it’s a nice thought nonetheless. He draws his hand up to his mouth for a moment, licks the taste of himself off his fingers and goes back to stroking himself, fast and hard, just wet enough now to get the kind of friction he’s been chasing. Thomas’s mouth would be hotter, wetter, but he’ll take what he can get.

Maybe he’d get him to do it right here, stretch his legs over the arms of the chair and let Thomas press a finger or two inside him at the same time. He’d do that himself right now, but he doesn’t have time for it. Maybe later, at home, and maybe something better than his fingers. That vibrator’s been sitting in the box in his closet for two months now at least, since his last impulse buying spree, and that would give him the sharp, quite literal buzzing feeling he gets when he’s here in this room with Thomas just a few feet away, saying things designed to get his temper flaring. But for now, he settles with this, with arching up into his own touch, with the sweetness of his solitude and how nice (and simultaneously repulsive) it is to still feel bright and alive even just _thinking_ of this utterly stupid man.

And for a moment, he does feel the buzzing. Hears it, almost, as if it’s playing on a loop in his head, like a song you just can’t forget. It takes a long few seconds for him to realise that the buzzing is something he’s _really_ hearing. And how had he missed that? That there’s a phone still sitting on the table, in front of the seat just across from him, and with one foot resting against a leg of the table, he can feel the vibrations. And it’s not just any phone, but Jefferson’s phone. In the second Alex takes to consider his options, it’s much too late. It happens too fast. The door to the conference room opens, Thomas steps inside with another phone in his hand that he’s clearly using to track down his own, and there’s nothing left to do but be caught.

Alex makes a whimpering sound at the back of his throat, and he’s not sure if that’s the hand he still has on his cock, or the fact that Thomas is now in the room with him once again. For his part, Thomas doesn’t quite notice what’s happening at first, simply says, “Oh, you’re still here,” in the snottiest tone possible as he swipes his phone off the table, and then looks up. Alex has never seen Thomas speechless in his life, but suddenly he is, but for a quickly muttered “holy shit.” He tries to back out of the room but misjudges the exact location of the doorframe and instead backs into the door, shutting himself in the room with Alex. Alex, who belatedly tries to cover himself with his hands but too little, too late, because Thomas is standing there, staring, unable to look away.

Thomas’s mouth opens and shuts a few times and Alex waits for the mood in the room to change, to die, but it doesn’t. He’s still ragingly hard, more so for being caught by the very person whose mouth he was just imagining stretched around his cock, and he’s panting, watching Thomas, waiting for him to make a move, to hastily leave, to say _anything_.

It takes him a minute, but at last he gets there, murmuring, “You’re – ah, you – you shouldn’t be.”

Alex considers mocking his sudden lack of ability to speak properly, but instead, he says, “Shouldn’t be. But I am. What are you gonna do about it?”

He watches as Thomas’s hand fumbles for the door handle behind him, his eyes on Alex the whole time, and for a second, Alex thinks he’s trying to leave. But then there’s an audible click, a sure sign that the door is now locked, and Thomas doesn’t go anywhere. The look on his face is still surprised, but it rapidly turns to devilish, a half smile as he regains his normal demeanour. And then Thomas is crossing the room, removing the barrier of the table between them, and bending low over Alex. His hands close around the arms of the chair, and he pulls it toward him so that he’s between Alex’s splayed legs.

“Is this what you do in here after the meetings?”

“As of today,” Alex mutters, and he can feel his body trembling in this moment, in the lack of certainty in what’s coming next, the proximity of Thomas and the tension rolling off of him in waves, a mere taste of their usual electricity. But he wants more than a taste, so he defiantly stares Thomas down and says, “I know you have trouble with your listening skills, so I’ll ask you again: what are you going to do about it?”

Jefferson’s hands fly to the lapels of his jacket and he manhandles Alex up and out of his seat, pushing him right up against the table until he’s sitting on the edge. “I’m going to touch you,” Thomas answers, “because if you go at it the way you go at everything else, then I suspect you’ve never done it right.”

Alex has backtalk on his tongue faster than ever, but it evaporates the second Thomas knocks his hand aside and starts touching him – slow, long, heavy strokes that have Alex immediately white-knuckling the edge of the table and rolling his hips up into Thomas’s hand. “Oh, Jesus,” Alex gasps, voice gone raspy, but he won’t give Thomas the satisfaction of being right, of telling him that while he certainly knows how to get himself off, he’s never in his whole life been touched like this.

“Yeah, heard he had a healing touch, too, but I bet I’m better.”

The next noise Alex makes starts on a laugh and ends on a quiet moan and he tries to buck his hips up faster, but Thomas stops him. “C’mon, please, if you’re gonna do it, do it faster,” Alex whines.

Thomas shakes his head. “I knew it. You jerk off the way you talk, fast and non-stop. You don’t pause to enjoy it.”

“We don’t have the time –” Alex begins, but Thomas interrupts.

“When normal people don’t have the time, they _make_ time, or else they never enjoy anything.”

“I _always_ enjoy masturbation,” Alex says, but his indignant tone falters under a groan from somewhere deep in his throat.

“You forget, we may be enemies, but I know you,” Thomas says, rolling his eyes, his grip tightening, his hand slowing even more on Alex’s cock. “You want instant gratification, so you _enjoy_ it when you go hard and come fast. But when you don’t hurry –” and here he rubs slow, steady, torturous circles with his thumb just under the head of Alex’s dick so that he moans far louder than he should and his own eyes damn near roll back into his head, “– _that’s_ how good it can be.”

“I’m not a patient person,” Alex breathes out, even as he considers the prospect of lying back on the table and letting Thomas touch his whole body.

“I know,” Thomas tells him. “Patience is a virtue and virtue is not a word I’d apply to you, either.”

“Fuck you,” Alex groans, one hand reaching forward to tug at Thomas’s tie, something to hold that isn’t the hard edge of the table.

“That was a compliment, if you can believe it,” Thomas tells him. “I prefer my men utterly indecent and sordid. But I also like to take my time with them. I’m sure you’ve heard rumours, Alexander. What do they praise most about me?”

And Alex would be lying if he said he hadn’t heard the rumours, if he said he didn’t know from a firsthand source exactly the kind of attention Thomas Jefferson pays his lovers. Lafayette had come into work one Monday several months back, two hours late, and told Alex he was recovering from a weekend with Jefferson, who’d fucked him stupid for more than an hour on both Saturday _and_ Sunday, his stamina alone enough to require the same kind of convalescence as a weekend spent binging on alcohol. Alex had been jealous since, fascinated with the idea, fantasising about how much better it could be for him than for Lafayette, knowing the enmity between himself and Thomas would lend the affair a certain kind of spark not to be found in a friendly one night stand (or two nights, as it were).

“You take your time,” Alex grounds out between his teeth, and it pains him to admit that Thomas is right.

“I take my time,” Jefferson agrees again, grinning. “And it seems like you’re just loving me for it.”

“Love is a stronger word than strictly necessary,” Alex admonishes, but he could easily see how a person could fall in love with this, with whatever magic there is in his touch, his technique, the way Alex is ill-content to take his time and yet, it seems that it’s better this way than it’s ever been.

Thomas pulls his hand away. “I could stop,” he suggests. “If you prefer to do a quick and dirty job of it like always. Or I could keep going, and you can come hard enough that you won’t be able to think about anything else the rest of the day.” His hand hovers just above Alex’s cock, and Alex gives him a dirty look, says nothing. But just when Thomas takes a step back, Alex gives in, reaches forward, and pulls him back in, places his hand back on his dick.

Thomas gives him a look that plainly says _that’s what I thought_ , and goes back to touching him, just the perfect amount of pressure, little twists of his hand at just the right moments, and rather than careening toward the edge like a rollercoaster off the rails, it feels like steadily climbing to the top. It’s like looking up and up and up and feeling his whole body taut with tension, knowing that the moment he hits the peak and free-falls over the other side is going to blow his goddamn mind.

Alex closes his eyes and lets his mind wander for a moment, leans back on his hands and lets his head fall back while he rocks his hips up and Thomas’s hand never stops. He puts himself in his bed, any given night, tired and frustrated (in more ways than one), and thinks about the way he touches himself. Thomas is not far off; he can’t remember a night when he’s taken it slow, when he’s focused on one thing at one time instead of trying to capture the best parts of a hundred different fantasies at once, his hand moving along his cock at a speed more suited to a race than to getting off, so eager to just come than to consider the implication of how many of his fantasies focus on Jefferson.

Sitting up straight again, he tugs Thomas forward by his tie until he’s nestled just right in between his thighs, then leans in and kisses him. Thomas seems surprised; his touch doesn’t cease but he stiffens for a second before relaxing into it, before kissing Alex back. Alex moans against his lips, relishing the way Thomas tastes like coffee and chocolate, enjoying the way he feels every swipe of Thomas’s tongue across his own somewhere much further down than his mouth.

When Thomas pulls away, he’s grinning. “See? Knew you lov –” he begins, but Alex cuts him off.

“Oh my _god_ , please just _shut up_ and make me come, I really need to come,” he whines.

“You really _are_ terribly fucking impatient, Alex. I’d like to just… well, no, never mind. I suspect you’d balk at the idea if you’re this desperate already.”

Alex frowns, bristles at the implication that there’s something Thomas would like to do to him that he thinks Alex would say no to, pursuant to the idea that he’s some sort of absurdly needy person (and okay, he mostly is). But because it feels far too much like a challenge, he yanks at Thomas’s tie again until he meets his eyes. “ _Tell me_.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I was going to say that I’d love to tie you to my bed and spend a whole weekend teaching you what it’s like to _really_ need it… but there’s no way you’d go for that, is there?”

It doesn’t sound like manipulation; it doesn’t sound like Thomas is trying to get him to say yes just by suggesting he would say no. It sounds like something he really _wants_ , and Alex finds himself agreeable, even if letting Thomas take control, letting him deny him much more than he’s denying now is fundamentally against everything Alex stands for.

And so he blurts out a soft _yes_ , tongue caught on the s so it sounds like a hiss, and tries again to rock his hips upward, to fuck into the heat of Jefferson’s grip on him, whining when he tightens his hold, refuses to give in to Alex.

“Well, there’s a surprise,” Thomas says, pausing as if to clarify. “You would really let me?”

Alex nods. “Can’t say I wouldn’t swear at you and call you a complete asshole the whole time but yes,” he says. “But we can save that for another day so _please_ , just let me come already.”

Thomas just shakes his head and laughs, and his hand starts moving on Alex’s cock again, just the slightest bit faster, just enough to get a real sense of friction. Alex feels his thighs start to tremble, feels them break out in little goosebumps as that familiar, warm feeling starts building along his spine, deep in his belly. But it’s better this time; it feels new and more intense and Alex is starting to understand now why the French have the phrase _la petite mort_ as a euphemism for orgasm. He lets his eyes fall to Jefferson’s hand, watches the way he drips precome all over his fingertips, follows every little pull and twist and touch that drags him toward the edge, then tugs Thomas in for another kiss.

He comes with Thomas’s tongue in his mouth, with his hips slamming upward off the edge of the table, with a loud moan in his throat and his chest heaving as he gasps for air, steals it from Thomas. Jefferson doesn’t stop until Alex pushes his hand away. He seems reluctant to stop, hand slowing back down to torturous teasing until Alex thinks he really will die. And Alex knows that Thomas will eat damn near anything, but it still surprises him when he licks his fingers clean, raising his eyebrows and smirking at Alex, humming as if he’s about to review it like a dessert in a three Michelin star restaurant.

“If you say ‘not bad,’ I’m going to kill you,” Alex mutters, breathless, head still swimming.

“Aw, sweetheart, _none_ of this was bad,” Thomas says, intentionally misinterpreting him. “Have more confidence in yourself.”

Alex groans, rolls his eyes and lays back on the table. “I’m going to kill you,” he repeats. He feels boneless, satisfied, and if he weren’t in the middle of the conference room, he’d take a power nap right here. Abruptly, he remembers that _is_ where they are – the conference room. Fuck.

Jefferson seems to remember then, too, because he pulls Alex upright and says, “Come on. Before they miss us.”

The opportunity is too good to pass up. “They’ve certainly all missed me. Not sure about you.”

“Fuck you,” Jefferson says with an all-too-polite smile.

“Later,” Alex says. He stands, knees a little weak, and starts trying to make himself look presentable again. “Unless you’ve already forgotten, you said you’d like to spend a whole weekend with me.”

“You talk too much. I’m rethinking it.”

Alex lets his eyes trace down Thomas’s body to a fairly apparent bulge in his pants. “ _That’s_ not rethinking it,” he says with a smug look. He turns before pulling his boxers and pants back up, flashes his ass at Jefferson and winking over his shoulder at him. “Know you want this.”

Jefferson just shakes his head and walks toward the door. “I hate you,” he reminds Alex, pausing at the door to give Alex time to buckle his belt.

Alex shrugs. “Hate me all you want but you’re still thinking about me. See you later?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Thomas says, waving a hand in dismissal and unlocking the door, walking back out.

Alex grins and heads back to his own office, giving it an hour tops before there’s a text on his phone, an invitation to Jefferson’s loft, and the promise of a weekend (perhaps more) that he’ll never forget.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title was borrowed from a Jennifer Lopez song, "Expertease (Ready Set Go)." Not ashamed.


End file.
